


Entangled

by Eagle_Grass_16



Category: Uprooted - Naomi Novik
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Love, Magic, Post-Canon, Reunions, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 05:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13404573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eagle_Grass_16/pseuds/Eagle_Grass_16
Summary: **Picks up right after the end of the novel, includes passages from the end of the novel.Sarkan came back--what now?Agnieszka takes him to her cottage in the forest and shows him what she's been doing. In the process, they meet a pair of sisters who appear to have been trapped inside a heart-tree for so long that they shouldn't even be alive...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first post on AO3 ^^

"When did you arrive?"

"This afternoon," he said stiffly. "I came to receive the taxes, of course."

"Of course," I said. I was sure he'd even gone to Olshanka for the tribute first, just so he could pretend that was the truth for a little bit longer. But I couldn't really bring myself to pretend with him, not even long enough for him to get used to the idea; my mouth was already turning up at the corners without my willing it to. He flushed and looked away; but that wasn't any better for him, since everyone else was watching us with enormous interest, too drunk on beer and dancing to be polite. He looked back at me instead, and scowled at my smile.

"Come and meet my mother," I said. I reached out and took his hand.

_(The above text is quoted exactly from Naomi Novik.)_

Stiff and reluctant, he let me pull him through the middle of the circle, our fingers laced together, the weight of the villagers' gazes trailing after us. With each halting step, his hand tightened in mine, and I knew he was extremely uneasy, nervous--at the prospect of meeting my family. I felt giddy with warmth; he wasn't refusing this, despite all his discomfort.

When we reached my mother, Sarkan lowered his head in acknowledgement and said, "Nice to meet you."

I dragged him to the ground with me as I retook my seat before my mother's chair, ignoring his silent, halfhearted protest.

"Mother, this is Sarkan, our Dragon," I said.

My mother's brows rose slightly at my choice of words-- _our_ , not _the_ \--and likely also at the name Sarkan. She smiled, mildly amused but still a little cautious, and said, "Thank you for what you have done for Agnieszka." She hesitated, then added, "Sarkan."

I wondered briefly whether, like me, my mother had tasted the fire and smoke of his name. Her eyes traveled down to our entwined fingers, and I felt Sarkan's intention to pull away. I clasped his hand tighter, firmly, and saw his jaw clench.

My mother returned her gaze to mine, an unspoken question in her eyes. I found that I was unsure of the answer, and merely shrugged. I offered Sarkan a tree-fruit, its golden color reflecting the dancing firelight. He frowned.

"I do not desire to be turned into a _tree_ ," he said.

"You won't," I assured him breezily, biting into the fruit. Sweetness coating my tongue, I held it out towards him again. "Not unless you want to."

Sarkan did not take the tree-fruit, and his frown deepened. I had the feeling that his reluctance now had more to do with the idea of sharing a fruit with me, in public, than with any quelms about turning into a tree.

I watched him, my mother watched him, everyone was watching him. He was unfamiliar with this curious attention that was not fearful respect.

He had held my hand--was holding it--he had drunk from the Spindle, and he had come back. Finally, he took the golden fruit from me with the hand not in mine.

The people seemed to let out a collective breath as he bit into the fruit, chewed slowly, swallowed. I knew he could taste the magic of the Spindle, of the forest--magic that would bind him a little more to this place.

"It's sweet," he assessed at last.

My smile widened and I stood, letting our fingers untangle. I set my basket of tree-fruits on the nearest table, offering them to the rest of the villagers now that our Dragon had verified their edibility. For all I had grown up in this village, the age and composure of Sarkan provided them with a sense of security beyond my cottage in the Wood and my loose tumbling hair and my mud-hemmed dress. Like it or not, the Dragon had already sank his own roots in this valley, in the hearts of its people.

We sat for a while longer in front of my mother's chair, and she took up the task of braiding my unruly hair again. I asked Sarkan about his work in the capital, and he told me he had done all he could and now it was up to the people there to mend the castle, to erase the apprehension in the hearts of the people. Alosha had recovered enough to take up forging another hungry sword, giving it slivers of her magic each day despite Ragostok's cross remarks, and Solya seemed to still be too unrattled by his confrontation with the Wood-queen to stir up trouble for the time being.

"You didn't write," I said. A hint of accusation slipped through my voice.

"I had much to do," he replied tightly, deliberately keeping his gaze from mine.

"Yes," I said bitingly. "I can imagine."

Finally, he turned to look at me. "I had thought you would drag me into one of those illusions if you had need of me."

"Well, of course I didn't want to distract you from all the things you had to do," I said.

He sighed, then asked, "What have you been doing, other than eating these tree-fruits?" He still had the fruit in his hand, unfinished. He brought it close to his face and studied it, tilting it this way and that. He took another hesitant bite.

"I'll show you tomorrow," I said. "Will you stay?"

"But my tower--" he began. His tower was still in ruins.

"No," I amended. "I meant, will you stay here tonight, with my family?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an awkward breakfast--for the Dragon, that is--Agnieszka takes him out to her cottage.

When I woke the next morning, Sarkan was sitting at the dining table with my parents, rigid in his blue coat and polished boots. He nibbled politely at the breakfast set out on the table, frustrated with the attention of my parents.

Amused, I strode up to the table, scooped myself a bowl of kasha, and took a seat in the chair beside Sarkan. He shot me a glance, as if asking when he could leave. I gave him a small curve of my lips and started eating.

After breakfast, I said goodbye to my family and began walking towards my cottage in the Wood, Sarkan trailing beside me. I waved to everyone I passed, and they waved back.

When we stopped some distance into the Wood, I watched as Sarkan took in the cottage and the two walkers helping themselves to the grove-fruits in the hollow on one side of my doorway. Then he whirled around and asked, incredulously, "You've been living _in the Wood_?"

"Yes," I said, and pulled him to and through the doorway, startling the walkers, who eyed Sarkan warily.

"Are you out of you mind?"

"It's not so bad," I said.

Sarkan surveyed the cottage wryly, then turned back to me. "At least it does not follow your penchant for disorder."

I shrugged. "I've been cleansing the trees of corruption; the walkers have been helping me," I told him. I grabbed my jug of Spindle-water.

"The walkers," he repeated. "And what made you think this was a good idea?"

"Come with me," I said, offering him an outstretched hand.

He hesitated, but eventually slid his palm over mine. His hand was warm, slightly rough, and his fingers rested uncertainly in mine. I fastened our hands together and led him back out. The two walkers were still gnawing on their fruits, and they swiveled to watch us even as they chewed the fruits down to the seeds, regarding Sarkan beside me, a foreign presence. We waited for them to finish the fruits, and when they took a few steps deeper into the Wood, Sarkan let me pull him along after them.

 

The walkers led us into a part of the Wood I had not set foot in previously, a rough circle of rocks and oak trees surrounding a dent in the earth. In the middle of the basin stood a heart-tree, unnatural lengths and lumps protruding at peculiar areas. The ashy, lifeless grey of the heart-tree seemed to cast an air of dread and foreboding over the basin, as if seeking to fill up the basin and overflow into the rest of the forest.

The walkers stopped at the edge of the circle, waiting, their unwillingness to step within the ring of corruption palpable. Gripping Sarkan's hand, I walked past the barrier of rocks and oaks, wary but determined. Immediately, the pungent stench of corrupted fruit wafted over and enveloped us. We walked towards the heart-tree, to the souls trapped and despairing.

I let go of Sarkan's hand to unscrew my jug and sprinkle Spindle-water onto the roots of the heart-tree. I heard Sarkan's sharp inhale when I reached out and touched the bark, and I knew he feared the corruption. I peered into the tree with my magic. There were two souls, huddled in a tangle at the forest ground, lost and afraid and exhausted. They had long forgotten their names, long forgotten their homes. They did not have a place to return to, nor people to call family. But when I reached out with my magic, they stared and slowly climbed to their feet, clutching each other's hand. Step by step, I guided them past vines and thorns and rotten logs, until the corruption took notice of their movements.

Branches twisted and snapped with energy, untamed and wild and sickening with decay. I tried to tell the souls to hurry, but they were tired, weighted down with invisible shackles. Boughs reached down and snagged at their already-torn clothes; spiky roots breaking through the ground beneath their bare feet, sinking thorns into their toes and soles. One of the figures tripped, falling with her knees onto sharp ground. The other one stopped and knelt beside her, frantic, attempting to pull her back up but not having enough strength. The ground became muddy and wet, and they might as well have been situated on quicksand, sinking deeper with each moment, each movement, the ground swallowing them up.

"Sarkan," I said, a silent request.

He complied, covering his hands over mine on the bark of the heart-tree. His magic wove through mine, beating back the corrupted energy, withering the unruly branches and vines.

" _Kisara_ ," I whispered, not to the heart-tree but to the mud beneath the souls' feet, drawing the dampness away. I imagined solid, flat ground, racetracks.

The fallen figure struggled upright at last, and I chanted a quickening spell, swift and rhythmic, spiriting them away from the corruption and towards the edge of the forest. I stopped chanting then, waiting for their decision. Here, far away from their human sorrow and fear, the forest was peaceful and silent, its wrath forgotten. The corrupted forest and this forest, I had long realized, occupied the same space, superimposed. I'd guided these souls from their pain and terror, and now I allowed them to choose.

The two figures looked at each other, a conversation without words. Finally they turned, hands linked, and stumbled towards the light beyond the edge of the forest, breaking free of the heart-tree's imprisonment, two nameless souls with nothing but each other and the courage to face a wholly new world.

The bark beneath our hands split, curling back to reveal the cheeks of two young women. Sarkan and I started peeling more of the grey bark away, the pieces disintegrating into ash as soon as it was ripped from the tree. Underneath the grey layer of corruption, through the knotted lace of the women's hair, the heart-tree was a soft, peaceful silver. We set the women down on the bare ground, then we kept prying free the sickened grey bark, revealing the healthy luster of silver underneath. I hoisted myself up a bough, the motion as natural to me as walking, and scratched away the grey in branches as well. The rotten fruits fell onto the ground, bursting into dust, and the heart-tree seemed to straighten itself out, but so gently as if to keep me from falling.

Satisfied, I swung off a low branch onto the ground and walked to where Sarkan was inspecting the two motionless women. He chanted spells for seeking out corruption, lighting them up from the inside. No shadows were lurking; the heart-tree was no longer corrupt.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talk.

"Do you do this every time?" Sarkan asked as we sat on the curved surface of the basin, waiting for the women to awaken.

I shook my head. "Each tree is different, and some trees are too far gone." I sat back on the ground and peered down at my worn-out fingernails. "I've never had to peel so much bark before."

I told him about the trees that hardly required any effort to cleanse, their corruption superficial, floating separate from their rooted hearts like a layer of grease. I told him of the trees that crumbled to dust the moment I purged their corruption, having subsisted on rage and sorrow for so long that they did not know how to live on without them. There were trees that writhed when I guided the trapped souls through, thrashing with wild indignation and ruthless strength; and trees that dropped fruits like cannonballs, which ruptured into thick grey mist smelling of dead things. There was a tree guarded by an army of mantises, tearing apart anything approaching too close, and trees holding too many lost souls, torn apart with nightmares, unmendable; I could not think of anything to do, other than burning those down.

Sarkan listened attentively, pondered a while, then said, "You've been quite occupied."

"I suppose so." I looked down at the women. Color was returning to their faces, but they still had not stirred. The two walkers had decided to venture over to us, now that the tree was no longer ensconcing the area with a putrid atmosphere. They had stood motionlessly as I spoke to Sarkan, though I had no idea if they understood any word.

Having nothing more to do but wait, I dumped the rest of the Spindle-water onto the tree's roots, humming a growing tune. The silver branches seemed to right themselves, new layers of platinum bark pushing off little remaining patches of ashy grey. Golden buds appeared on the tips, enlarging first into tiny golden fruits and then into bigger ones. I allowed a few to mature, plucked them off and sniffed, checking for remnants of corruption. When I didn't find anything alarming, I offered them to the walkers.

I was aware of Sarkan watching me, but I didn't mind very much. I went back and sat down beside him, close enough that our shoulders brushed.

"When are you leaving?" I finally asked, dread making my voice tight.

He was silent for a while, his eyes trained on the walkers eagerly nibbling their fruits. "I must return to the capital to reinforce the wards around the castle and to check for corruption."

My heart sank heavy, weighted down with lead. I pretended to study one of the oaks making up the ring around the basin, not wanting him to see my disappointment.

"But I am not--that is--" He fell silent for a moment, then continued haltingly, as if it cost him to speak, "Will you help me repair the tower?"

I turned to him with narrowed eyes. "Why?"

It was his turn to avert his gaze. Quietly, struggling like it was a painful admission, he said, "I have to return to the capital in two days' time, but I do not plan on staying there indefinitely."

"What does that have to do with repairing the tower?" I hoped, but I wanted to be sure.

A familiar scowl took over his features, and, indignant, he finally deigned to look at me directly. "I'm saying, you impossible creature, that once I finish up at the capital, I'll be coming back."

Joy was a steady surge welling up through my veins. I said, "Coming back where?"

His scowl deepened, and I could tell he knew that I had understood him just fine. But to my delight, he answered, "Back _here_ , you wretched dolt."

I felt the smile tug free of my lips, and I leaned over and pressed it to his mouth. For a moment he sat very still, tendrils of indecision swirling through him. Then slightly, he moved his lips, a soft sigh escaping them as his shoulders drooped from their rigid configuration, resigned. He placed his hands very slowly on my cheeks, the tips of his fingers sliding into my disorderly hair. My hands moved to his shoulders, and I knew I was smudging dirt and ashes onto his jacket. I wasn't particularly concerned.

There was a pricking sensation on my side.

"Sarkan," I murmured, pulling back slowly. He looked as disheveled as I felt with his hair hanging in front of his dark, burning eyes, his lips parted. My heart lingering, I turned and pulled away from him, looking with mild annoyance at the walker that had poked me.

It gestured towards the women, and I noticed one of them--the one that hadn't tripped--was scrunching up her face, lips pursed in a frown, as if squinting against something behind her eyelids. As I watched, she opened her eyes in slits, then pressed them shut again, tightly. She blinked a few more times, accommodating her pupils to the brightness of a summer afternoon after having been wrapped for so long in the dark.

The woman twisted her neck to the side, saw her companion, and seemed to squeeze their interlocked fingers. Using her free hand, she pushed herself to a sitting position and slowly took in her surroundings.

"... How do you feel?" I asked, after her gaze had traveled back to Sarkan and me.

She opened her mouth, intending to speak, but her voice was rough from screaming and disuse. She attempted to clear her throat, the hacking coughs rocking through her bony figure. I offered her a honey cough drop made with licorice root and juniper berry. She took it with tentative fingers, which was good, considering her no-longer-quite-human strength.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a rasp. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Are you in pain?" I asked.

She curled and uncurled her mud-crusted toes and shook her head, the motion jerky, awkward.

"Do you have a place to go?"

Her shoulders lifted in the barest of shrugs, swallowing and making a grating noise in the back of her throat before opening her mouth. "I could not follow the passage of time after the third decade, but I do not hold much hope of finding the world as I had left it." There was a rusted quality to her words, an accent I had never heard before.

Thirty years. They'd been trapped in the heart-tree for more than thirty years. I didn't want to contemplate how enough of her survived to break free of the tree's hold.

"Do you know who you are?" Sarkan asked.

"I had a name," she said, wistfully. "But it's been so long." She trailed a pale finger down the side of her torn and faded garments.

She was wearing a long white shirt with sleeves that widened at her elbow. The hems of the shirt and the sleeves were adorned with an intricate pattern of darkened red and inky black, woven through and into and branching out of each other. She wore loose baggy pants the color of a vibrant cobalt that seemed to have been untainted by the years of imprisonment, the pant legs gathered with pieces of cord at the ankles. The color of her hair was a vivacious silver, and her eyes glinted with liquid mercury. The other woman was dressed in a similar way, her hair a resplendent copper streaked with pieces of bark, although her pants were a rich mulberry purple. I had never seen such a style of dress, and I said as much.

I turned to Sarkan, whose gaze had been cataloguing the women's outfits as well. He felt my gaze and shook his head. "Neither have I."

I swallowed, horror flooding into me like a tide. "Does this... Does it mean that they have been trapped for longer than you have been alive?"

"A valid conjecture."

The woman spoke. "You need not trouble yourselves more. My sister and I are already grateful to you for freeing us."

"But you have nowhere to go," I protested.

"What did you do with all the other people you freed?" Sarkan asked.

"They were all either too far gone to bring back or trapped for a short enough time that they still knew the world. They've never been so... out of time." Sarkan was silent.

I sighed and addressed the woman, "What can you remember?"

She smiled. "My sister's name."

I blinked in surprise. "Your sister's? But not your own?"

Her eyes stared at something far away and unreachable; something, I thought, that she couldn't quite remember. Her unfamiliar, lilting voice oscillates through the air, a compulsion to listen. "The worst form of torture makes people flee from themselves, throwing out reminders of where they are, what they feel. Names usually go first, for they are so deeply entrenched in our sense of self. It's a sense of liberation, the illusion of being a stranger, of our pain not being ours, screams not ripping through our throats, tears not stinging our eyes. We forget who we are so we could be someone else, anyone else. That's why Melka and I, we've always given each other our names to keep, instead of our own."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Melka" is a Polish name that means "dark."


End file.
